


Summer Storm

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a blisteringly hot summer day and much to Grace's disgust they're hiking through a field. Surely there are better ways to spend an afternoon, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Storm

It’s a hot, exceedingly unpleasantly muggy summer day and they are traipsing through a field by themselves looking for… something. Grace can’t remember what, only that he was totally, insistently sure they’d find it here.

They have been walking for well over an hour, they have so far failed to find anything remotely useful - or even mildly interesting - and sadly the novelty of being alone with him in the middle of nowhere is beginning to lose its appeal.

It’s hot. Really hot. Horribly humid too, in a disgustingly sweaty, clothes-sticking-uncomfortably-to-skin mood-souring kind of way. She desperately wants a shower, or a perhaps just a fall into a pool of water, vanishing below the surface of a cool blue ocean before emerging, clean, refreshed and a lot more relaxed than she is now. Anything really, besides this sticky, miserable hike across a seemingly endless field under the relentlessly baking, burning, scorching heat of the sun.

But, having left his jacket in the car, Boyd’s shirt sleeves are decisively rolled up and his shoulders are firmly set as he relentlessly ploughs ahead, determined not to leave empty-handed. She can’t really blame him for his resolve, not after they spent a large chunk of the day driving all the way out here, but still, as she trails slowly and unenthusiastically along behind him, she can’t help wishing that sometimes, just sometimes, he could understand - and employ - the concept of when to give up.

None of that’s important now though, because quite suddenly her luck changes. Several feet ahead, he stops and turns, his gaze coming to rest on her as she picks her way along the bone dry track, carefully avoiding the tangles of roots and thick, leafy stems that are somehow daring to defy the blazing summer heat.

“You ok?” he asks as she finally draws level and pauses beside him. His hand rests easily on her shoulder, his fingers brushing gently over the fabric of her light summery top and she smiles at the tender concern in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she replies, shading her own eyes against the sun as she looks up at him. “Are you?”

But whatever reply he might have been about to give is lost in the mighty roar of Mother Nature, as she chooses that exact moment to remind them both of her awesome power.

It happens in an instant, taking them both by surprise. There’s no warning, not even a hint of what is to come. There is only the swift and entirely unexpected rush of fierce wind that sweeps across the field around them, tugging and yanking at their clothes, and then the shock of cold, heavy, splattering raindrops. In mere seconds they are entirely drenched as the downpour quickly builds into a pounding onslaught, obscuring the landscape around them. Grace blinks, looks around; she can’t see more than ten feet in front of her, it’s raining so hard.

She feels Boyd take her hand and tug her into motion again, feels him leading her quickly, but carefully back along the path, and this time she has no thought of complaint because the water that is running in torrents and rivers across her skin is blessedly, wonderfully cool.

Their progress slows as the packed, dry earth of the path beneath their feet becomes slippery and saturated; a thick, gluey, muddy mess that clings to their feet and ankles, threatening to trip them, send them sliding into the endless rows of crops surrounding them. He never once lets go of her, his fingers firmly, securely laced through hers, even when they finally make it to the base of a large, old weeping willow tree, and push through the drooping branches to the relative safety underneath.

They are both soaked to the skin; they have not a stitch between them that is still dry, and when Boyd shakes his head, droplets fly from his hair in all directions, glittering faintly in the muted rays of light poking their way between the leaves.

There are branches all around them, hung with dense, tangled rivers of dangling leaves. There is the thick, gnarled trunk behind them, twisting high up into the sky and supporting the heavy weight of history, time and knowledge. There are odd shafts of light, crisscrossing the space all around them and so too there is the heavy scent of wet earth and plant matter, of hot, dry summer rain. And outside their temporary cocoon of shelter, there is the thunderous roar of the storm as water rushes and floods down around them, and the eerie, distinctive whistle of gusting wind.

There is also Boyd. Standing beside her, his hand still firmly wrapped around hers as droplets continue to drip steadily down his body, rolling slowly over the long plains of muscle and bone. His dark grey shirt is so wet it’s almost black and the effect makes his eyes so dark, so deep and mysterious as he stares so intently at her that she feels her breath catch and snag in her chest.

Her eyes flicker slowly over his torso, lingering over every single inch of him. The rain has turned his once immaculate shirt into a second skin, and she can’t stop herself from reaching out, from very slowly tracing a fingertip across his clavicle, entranced by the texture of the wet fabric pulled tight over skin and bone. Water drips from his hair, running down the back of her hand and it’s an odd, almost icy contrast to the burning heat of him under her touch.

Mingled with the rich tapestry of rain and earth, sunshine and vegetation, Boyd can just detect the scent of her skin. It’s like a siren call, designed specifically for him. So too is the outline of delicate summery lace beneath the clinging fabric of her blouse, and he can very clearly see the effects of the cool rain and their sudden enforced proximity. He steps closer, crowding his way into her personal space. She doesn’t mind - she doesn’t mind at all. Her fingers move across his shoulder, his chest, exploring the contours of muscle until they reach his throat; skirting the collar of his shirt, they make their way very slowly up his neck, sliding easily, lightly in the slippery wake of the rain.

His eyes close under her delicate caress, his other senses heightening immediately. He can hear her breathing, he can feel how close she is, and in his mind he can see exactly the look of intense concentration on her face, the absolute fascination in her eyes. It’s wonderful, it’s sensual and he is caught in her spell, rooted to the spot and bound tightly in the net of rich, heady feedback his senses are providing.

Until her fingers find and trace the length of his jaw, slide through the short, bristly hairs of his beard and his concentration shatters, his control snaps. In a heartbeat she’s in his arms, and her back is pressed firmly into the tree trunk. His lips are on hers and it’s hot and wild and deeply, blindingly passionate. There is nothing but him and her. Them. Her arms around his neck, his hands wandering, exploring. And that kiss that goes on and on, forcing everything else in the world far, far away as they tumble into an abyss of sweeping, mesmerising emotion and pure, unfiltered and breathlessly enthralling desire.

Around them, the rain continues to fall and the wind continues to howl. The willow merely flutters a few leaves and continues to stand, providing shelter and quiet intimacy. In its long and colourful history this isn’t the first assignation this tree has witnessed, and undoubtedly it won’t be the last, but it may very well be the most spontaneous.


End file.
